


Commissioning a Symphony in C

by glassdemons



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 03:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassdemons/pseuds/glassdemons
Summary: When you want to see someone, you'll find an excuse.





	Commissioning a Symphony in C

The reflection was hardly assuring as he tucked his hair back under the hat, adjusted the mask, pulled on his gloves. He knew the reflection was Gilbert. Surely, after so many years of knowing him, anyone would see right through the masquerade outfit. He pulled the hat lower over his already shrouded eyes and sighed.

A hundred years ago, he never would have stooped so low. The only reason Gilbert should ever have to come to this damnedable (beautiful) city would be to gloat. Remind everyone who won, who protects the young Germany. 

Ludwig. Right. If he had to, he would say this was all a gift for him. 

Not that Gilbert couldn't compose something more beautiful than he could. It just wouldn't be a surprise then. 

He steeled his nerves and tore his gaze away from the window long enough to knock on the door of the downright _scraggly_ house. Perhaps Austrian cities were finally crumbling. He ignored that this made his chest seize up in a flare of panicked worry.

He threw the money at Roderich as soon as he opened the door, which, in hindsight wasn't the best idea, as it nearly knocked him over. "I would like to commission you!" he shouted, startling even himself. 

Roderich rubbed where the sack of coins had hit him in the chest, looking back to where it fell on the ground and forth to the masked figure before him, not sure if he wanted to be angry or confused. He opened his mouth, shut it, glanced at the money again. Finally, he glared at Gilbert, deciding he would both. _"What?"_

"You are a composer, yes?"

Roderich squinted. 

"I would like a symphony for my nephew."

Slowly, Roderich picked up the bag, tutting to himself as he looked inside. He had questions, surely. Gilbert wasn't sure how much he charged for such an undertaking, but judging by his current residence, not enough. Or maybe he was too busy ass kissing royalty to make them feel better about Gilbert's final, inevitable victory.

Or maybe he was just depressed. A twinge of something akin to guilt, just for a moment. Gilbert knocked it away easier than he probably should have.

"Alright," he said at last, though he sounded doubtful. "Please, come in. We'll discuss the details."

Behind the mask, Gilbert smiled.

\---

It was several months later that Gilbert wore the mask again, Ludwig in similar dress beside him as he looked up to the palace. This wasn't how, a hundred years ago, he would have imagined getting to see the inside. He took Ludwig's hand, and could feel the boy's impatience. He had done well, instilling a love of art into his little soldier. Pity they were going to Austria for it.

Pity Gilbert hadn't yet taught him to act as though he owned everything this side of the Rhine. He was very polite to the offical guiding them to the concert hall. Gilbert ignored it. It might serve him well in the future to take after someone else. 

Around them, others spoke in hushed tones about the beautiful music becoming audible in the lavish halls, how it took after young composers Gilbert would be ashamed to admit he knew, even to Fritz.

They stood before the concert hall at last. Ludwig took the lead, not noticing the hesitation from Gilbert. Perhaps he did know he owned it all. This wasn't a dangerous (defeated, he reminded himself) enemy's heart. This was just another spectacle Gilbert had brought him to see.

No one else in the hall seemed to notice him slinking in, either, though. As he made his way to their box, Gilbert couldn't help but wonder if the humans around him even remembered just to breathe as they all, enraptured, stared at Roderich. 

Maybe they all saw what he did.

It was lovely, of course, he thought as he sat beside Ludwig with a few strangers around them. He watched the flutes for a moment before his thoughts began to wander. 

If this was losing, he almost wished he had.

What a curious thing to think. So many years lost to conflict, and yet, he wanted to do nothing but sit around with his music now that he had finally, _finally_ won.

No, he wished that Roderich would ever let go of his pride enough to deign to wear a disguise to have the honor of a few hours in his company. 

He would recognize him, surely. Unlike Roderich, Gilbert was observant. Roderich would never have taken the time to take note of Gilbert in any way that would matter under a few layers of loose fitting fabric and a mask that hid his eyes.

Part of the melody seemed almost familiar to him. It would figure that one as lazy as Roderich would steal someone else's work, though he couldn't place where it was from. Subconsciously, he began tapping his fingers against his leg, as though he were playing it on his own flute.

It was humiliating, really, that this is what he had come to, paying to stare at Roderich, though who would even know what he was looking at behind his mask? And he certainly couldn't be seen without it.

It was almost enough to wish that he solved problems the way Roderich did.

Diplomacy.

Marriage.

Gilbert bit his lip.

There was nothing to be done about it, though. From the dawn of his existence, to the Baltic Crusades, to every damned battle he had so happily rushed into, Gilbert existed to fight, and to win.

He spared a glance at Ludwig, who was positively enraptured by the brass instruments, clear even behind his mask.

No one would notice if Gilbert looked back at Roderich, though.

There was so much he wanted to say, but never could. He wasn't born to talk. He could never hide from the world stage like this, though every part of him wanted to just run and hide away from it all now that his noble slaughter of the rest of their family was done.

Not a single backstabbing aristocratic bastard in the room would have been able to do what he had done, pardoning _his_ backstabbing aristocratic bastard, yet they all forced their hands, and were now keeping Gilbert pushed to the side, watching from above, words on his tongue that he'd have to swallow while they got to genuinely enjoy this moment with people that loved them.

Such is the life of a nation.

So tonight, as the music swelled, he chose to be an Austrian nobleman, listening to a symphony that defied all earthly descriptions, and behind his mask, no one could say he wasn't, and behind his mask, no one could say if he was crying.

**Author's Note:**

> A song fic based on the song by Cake.


End file.
